Much like all writer-at-hearts, I used to carry with me a little book; a little green book. With it, I committed myself to writing every single day. In it, I wrote every little thing anyone, anything, anywhere could throw at me – be it a random thought, a fleeting idea, a flash of incomplete inspiration, a lingering memory, or a spontaneous reflection. The little green book went everywhere I go, as if it was a piece of me I could not afford to lose.
For a long time, we were inseparable. That little green book became my lifeline. It wasn’t words anymore that I wrote in that book, it was my own self that I inked and etched in that little green book.
And then, as you, my dear readers, must have already guessed it, I lost it. Or at least, I thought I lost it. And life went on as per usual, just minus that little push in the beginning of each day – that little push that everyone needs to commit, to do, to act. In simpler words, life went on with me, yet again, procrastinating the writer self in me, the writer.
Today, as if the universe knew, I found the little green book again while I was doing my spring cleaning, tucked and hidden comfortably under an unkempt mount of books. Lately, I have been so busy with life that I have further pushed away the writer to dormancy. Building this blog was a desperate try to revive the writer, however, you know what happens – life always, always, always gets in the way. And as such, even this blog reeks of inconsistency and procrastination, as I struggle myself to find that fire, that desire– that push.
But I’m not going to lie. Every writer that has been deprived of writing, be it due to lack of inspiration, lack of time, or you name it, knows this agony, something like a drug addict’s agony being too far away from his drugs for too long. I’ve been tossing and turning, longing for, and missing that old self– that old flame.
Finding this little green book again is like a gentle, but formidable, push from the universe for me to come back and re-commit to my first love, to what perhaps is what I truly, really am, and what perhaps is what I truly, really am made for. It’s like having another go at a dream that I once put on hold– or like a silent reminder that no matter how interruptive life gets, writing is something that I will always do.
Writing is, and will always be, home.
The last entry was dated back in 2013. Re-reading them serves as a reminder of how far I have come. Now that it’s 2016 as we speak, it’s probably time to commit in finding my way back home; it’s probably time to be able to write again.
Yeah, it’s about time. Cross fingers,
Here we go, life.